


The Loser's Game

by animalboything



Category: South Park
Genre: Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Horrible People, Horror, M/M, Multi, Past Rape/Non-con, Violence, dub-con
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-26
Updated: 2015-12-26
Packaged: 2018-05-09 13:24:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 11
Words: 17,869
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5541626
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/animalboything/pseuds/animalboything
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stan can never be a winner in the game he plays. No one knows when the change occurred, but the emminent cry for help remains. The question remains of what happened? WARNING: Major Slash/Mature/Effed up. Seriously.</p>
<p>Note: Originally posted on FF.net years and years and years ago under the username Grando181.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. It's Not Like You, Stan

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted on FF.net years ago (started in 2006) under the name Grando181. Recently decided to edit the whole thing. Not sure if it'd be listed as Explicit or Mature, so I'm erring on the side of caution. 
> 
> Lots of potential triggers in this.

Disclaimer: South Park is the creation of Matt Stone and Trey Parker. Beware of hidden satanic messages. This fan fiction was originally a product of watching too many episodes in the span of three days and suffers “AU” slaughter, and now the product of returning to a piece that was started in 2006. It should not be read by anyone who does not understand the term “AU”. Or anyone in general. Because, really, this is fucked up.

P.S.S.S Reviews welcome.

Let’s begin, shall we?

***

When South Park’s very own football team had an away game, the boys would share hotel rooms—two per bed. Often, due to quantity, two members on the team had the privilege of having a single rather than sharing a room with four people. These rare privileges were traditionally granted to the team captain and top athlete, but after the first few away games, Token requested to stay with the others claiming that “inability to compromise with Stanley Marsh.” Not feeling the need to question the sacrifice, the coach agreed, deciding to be fair by having a rotation of players.

Stan didn’t mind one way or the other.

Maybe it was because he was different than the rest of the team. When the other boys would laugh, tossing Playboys across the locker room while having spray-deodorant fights, Stan found himself watching, lips pursed together, eyes calm and tranquil.

Watching was a favorite hobby, and watching the team brought a new reason to play.

He played it for the boys.

It was maybe after the second away game when he made his move on Token, cautiously turning on his side as he looped his arm around him. Token stiffened and called him a faggot but not before Stan’s hand encircled his hard on and he got punched in the face. “I was being stupid,” Stan had said, and they had agreed to keep it on the down low.

The following game, Stan lay in bed next to Craig. Craig was relatively close to Token, the runaway captain. Broad shouldered and angry, he easily became Stan’s next challenge. Stan placed a hand on Craig’s chest as they laughed about breaking a 60-point lead, then slid it lower. Craig pulled back, said, “I’m not fucking gay,” but Stan whispered a promise of silence, a promise to give him affection, and a simple blow job that would spin his mind. Craig groaned, releasing hard into the condom Stan had rolled on him not minutes before.

“You tell anyone, I’ll kill you,” Craig whispered, threat clear as they wrapped their arms around each other and fell asleep.

The next game came, and the same ordeal passed with Clyde. A similar line with Tweek although Tweek’s sporadic twitches led to Stan falling off the bed. Stan had grown so accustomed to the program that when his hand moved to close around Butter’s length he was caught off guard by the hand encircling his wrist and holding him back.

“The others do it, too,” Stan said quickly. “Craig, Clyde—half the team, really. They’re not as straight as you think.” His free hand moved, and it was again stopped.

“N-n-now Stan, I don’t think I’m interested in this and I think it’s rotten that you would do this to yourself or anyone else,” he stumbled, sitting upright. “And d-don’t you have a girlfriend? That Wendy is pretty nice-”

“I’m not looking for a girlfriend-”

“Well maybe you should ask Kyle, then. Or talk with your buddies—they seem pretty nice.”

“Look, can we not talk about my friends right now?”

“Oh, ah, alright. You probably want to get to sleep anyway since it’s late.” Without so much another word, Butters practically passed out. Burned by his first rejection, Stan had trouble falling asleep that night. He lay on his back, staring at the ceiling, wondering what the hell had happened, what had changed.

The next game came and went—Stan didn’t press his luck.

Another game passed and the same tradition pursued.

It was the second to last game when Craig requested that he share a room with the quarterback. With lifted spirits, the boys wasted no time crawling into bed, arms and legs flailing and entangling around one another. Craig kissed rough—everything about him was rough from the way his teeth closed around Stan’s lower lip to the way he straddled Stan’s waist, to the way his hands found the other’s throat, encircling tightly. The air seeped from his lungs. Stan flailed, hands gripping onto Craig’s in an attempt to loosen the other’s hold.

“I told you I’d kill you if you told anyone,” he hissed, allowing his hands enough slack for the other to take a short breath.

“I didn’t tell anyone!”

Craig’s hands tightened further. “Butters ratted you out to everyone. Cartman’s posting about it on Facebook. Everyone knows.” His hands released a fraction again and Stan wheezed for breath.

“Craig! I-”

“You don’t fuck with me.” Craig squeezed tighter. “And you don’t fuck with my friends.” Craig’s hands slid from Stan’s neck to his hips as he coughed, inhaling as deeply as he could.

“Roll over,” Craig growled.

“What?” Stan choked, perplexed for only a moment as Craig lifted himself off the other’s stomach. “You’re not suggesting-”

“Roll over,” the boy reiterated. “If you want it so bad, you’ll fucking roll over.”

Stan’s eyes closed and he obeyed, fingers gripping the bed as his boxers were yanked off. The corner of a pillow was shoved into his mouth. Craig’s right hand pressed hard in between the quarterback’s shoulder blades holding him flat against the mattress; his left hand tore a wrapper open. After a moment, Craig leg go, hands gripping onto Stan’s hips, slamming an endowed length inside without so much a simple preparation. Stan screamed, muted by the thickness of the pillow as the slams came harder and faster, skin slapping against skin. He felt something tear, a wet heat, and slammed back hard against Craig before Craig groaned and pulled out. The condom was unpeeled and thrown in the trash can.

“Get a shower and sleep on the floor,” Craig grunted, crawling underneath the covers before turning on his side.

“What?”

“I said get a shower and sleep on the floor.”

“But I thought—wasn’t this—us—“

“Get. A. Shower.”

Stan limped to the bathroom, crying only once the door was locked and the cold water hit the back of his blood-caked thighs.

“I don’t want to room with Stan; he’s such a faggot,” Craig complained the next morning to the laughter of his fellow teammates.

“Shut up, Craig,” Stan retorted, eyes narrowed. Cartman cackled, shaking his head as he sank to his knees.

“Oh, thank you God. Thank you so much for making Stan’s life hell!” he declared. “Now if you’ll only get rid of the Jew-”

“Shut up, fat ass!” Kyle retorted, swinging a punch at the boy. For the moment, Stan felt safe from the wrath of rumors—a part of him wondered if the jab at Kyle was Cartman’s way of drawing attention away from himself, or whether it was incidental.

For the next game, Stan was demoted to a quad. He wasn’t sure if it was luck or misfortune that paired him with Kyle, Cartman, and Kenny, but he decided it beat rooming with Pip, Butters, and Jimmy.

Behind closed doors, conversation strayed from blatant sexuality jokes, at least no more than a typical banter. Stan shared a bed with Kyle; Cartman and Kenny shared the other double though Kenny complained that Cartman’s ass took up three quarters of the bed. Stan said nothing but moved to the far end of his bed, arms wrapped around his chest with his back toward Kyle.

“You know-” Kyle whispered, confident Cartman and Kenny were asleep by their silence, “-you can tell me anything, right? It’s not like I’m going to judge you differently just because you’re… you know.”

“Gay?”

“Yeah. Gay.”

Silence.

Stan rolled onto his back, shoulder brushing against Kyle’s. They lay breathing in synchronization, staring at the shadow patterns on the ceiling.

“Could you love me?” Stan asked. Kyle frowned.

“If I weren’t straight, I would,” he replied, turning on his side. Kyle lifted his hand, brushing the mop of black bangs away from Stan’s forehead. Stan said nothing though he flinched.

“What the hell happened to you, Stan?” Kyle mused out loud.

Stan couldn’t answer.

He soon was greeted by the silence that accompanied sleep. It was only in this sleep that Stan was able to lean over his friend’s body and press his lips to the other’s forehead.

“Love shouldn’t matter if you’re a girl or guy,” he whispered then shifted onto his side, greeted by the warmth behind him as he beckoned sleep to come.

 


	2. Camera Phones and Bruised Knuckles

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holy moly, is this dusty. I can't believe I started this in 2006. Just... wow. 
> 
> ANYWAY, Disclaimer: South Park is the creation of Matt Stone and Trey Parker. Beware of hidden Bohemian messages. This fan fiction is a product of watching too many episodes in the span of xxx-days and suffers “AU” slaughter. It should not be read by anyone who does not understand the term “AU.” Freddie Mercury is God. Queen, also, has nothing to do with this disclaimer.
> 
> Let’s begin, shall we?

“Shut up, Kenny!” 

Kyle’s left eye peered open before the right followed, eyes adjusting to the darkness of the room. Noxious whispers were far from his preferred method of rising, but it was the tone of the hisses that drew his attention. He squeezed his eyes shut again, rubbing the side of his face into the pillow, basking in the warmth of the bed. 

“Got it!”

“Sweet, give it to me.”

“Fuck off, fat ass.”

“Ay~! You fat shaming me, bro?!” 

The task of sleep, Kyle believed, was infeasible—granted Kenny’s voice always seemed too crisp without the hood of his parka drawn tightly around his face, but the hushed undertones that accompanied whispers distraught him. Paranoia expanding from the general distrust he had for his asshole friends, Kyle propped his right arm beneath his body, groaning as he propelled himself into an upright position.

“What time is it?” he groaned, pausing as he began to move his right arm. His forearm draped around Stan’s stomach, hand curled under with his fingertips barely making contact with his t-shirt. By instinct, Kyle pressed into the rough cotton. He retracted his hand smoothly rather than jerking away in panic, the reaction that he was certain Cartman would be expecting.

“Dude, you guys are sick,” Kyle murmured, shaking his head. His eyes narrowed, arms folding in front of his chest. “Who set me up?”

“Whatever do you mean, Kyle?” Cartman asked, voice elevating in pitch. Faux innocence—a trait that the boy had learned to master over the years. Bastard. Kyle wished that he could say that was the only thing that bothered him about the obnoxious, overweight, prejudice-ridden boy… yeah right. The only ones that seemed able to put up with Cartman’s jaunts were Kenny, Butters, and Craig—but Craig never seemed to give a fuck about anything. Really. 

“You know exactly what I mean, fatty,” Kyle retorted.

“No set up, Dude. I saw you two looking all luv-u-luv-u and woke him up,” Kenny offered as explanation.

“Shut up, Kenny! He doesn’t need to know tha—ow! AY~! What the hell was THAT for?” 

Kyle’s head turned to the other side of the bed. In the midst of yells, Stan had clearly woken. He sat sideways on the bed, sock-covered feet swinging inches above the floor boards and boxers crinkled from the hours accompanying sleep. His hand lifted, shoving through the unkempt hair in an automatic smoothing motion, still a section in the back part of his hair refused to sit.

“AY~! I’M TALKING TO YOU!” Cartman still protested, eyes squinted into narrow darts as his hand covered his sore stomach.

“…nhn mhn fhn.”

A moment of silence.

“Dude, he sounded just like Kenny!” proclaimed Cartman, eyes widening in an amused fashion.

“Shut up, fat ass!” Kenny retorted. Fists swung, Cartman pleaded mercy (and would undoubtedly reap some sort of reward), a typical day.

“Jesus Christ guys,” Kyle interrupted, readjusting his hat as he picked up the clock residing on the dresser. “It’s six-thirty in the frickin’ morning. Thanks a lot, Cartman.”

“See this is exactly the reason why I hate having sleepovers with Jews. No matter what it is they’ve always got to find soooome reason to complain. I vote we kick Kyle out of the room. Who’s with me?”

“We’re checking out of the hotel this morning, dumbass, or did you forget?” Kyle retorted quickly. Kenny groaned, bringing a hand to his face.

“You guys, this is getting really lame. It’s not funny this early in the morning.”

“Shut up Ken—Stan?” in unison, both Cartman and Kyle turned to the lean figure who rose from the bed, padded across the room, then slipped into the bathroom. The click of the lock filled the gap of silence.

“Why’re we staring at the door?” Kenny asked. “Doesn’t everyone piss?” 

Typical Kenny: loud, brash, and the perfect ice breaker. It was only mild surprise that Cartman hadn’t broken the silence first but no surprise that the three would start laughing.

It was on the bus that Cartman proudly stood in the center of the aisle, hand lifted with his cell phone on display. Shots. Pictures. Photos of Kyle’s arm wrapped snuggly around Stan’s body, the quarterback’s face buried into the pillow. 

Peels of laughter erupted; Stan sank lower into his seat, head turned to gaze out the window.

“Guys, we were sleeping! You’re so immature,” Kyle argued, eyes beaded into a glare. Cartman paid no heed, passing the phone to Clyde. Hands brushed against hands, laughter elevating as the cell was handed from teammate to teammate. 

“Kenny?” Kyle half-pleaded. His friend shrugged his shoulders, eyes faintly showing remorse. Or maybe that was a hazed glaze from pot. Hard to tell with Kenny sometimes.

“If it were me, you two would be doing the same as them,” Kenny said. 

Kyle couldn’t argue that; he knew it was true. And really, Kenny seemed to be racking up points along all levels. He rocked back against his seat, eyes shifting to Stan. He had pulled his hat low, covering his ears as he gazed out the window. 

Tree. Field. Another Tree. 

“Hey… Stan, look, it’s cool. They’ll get over it soon enough. Before you could believe it.”

“Yeah right.”

“Oh, c’mon. They’ll rip in on Butters soon enough. Besides, everyone knows I’m straight so it’ll pass quickly.”

“Heh. Yeah. You’re straight. But the quarterback’s not.” The faintness of a laugh cut off. Stan’s finger lifted, tracing a design against the glass. “It’ll get worse.”

“Stop being so goddamn pessimistic, Stan. I’m trying to cheer you up.” Kyle was silenced by the phone handed to him by Butters.

“Gosh, this picture sure is funny, isn’t it Kyle?” Butters laughed dumbly.

It was perhaps the laugh or his innocent face that set off Stan, bringing him to his feet as he lunged over Kyle’s body and connected his knuckles with Butters’ jaw. As the back of Butters’ fair head smashed the window with a huge crash crash, full chaos ensued.


	3. Wyoming is in, like, China

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: South Park is the creation of Matt Stone and Trey Parker. Beware of hidden backwards tracks. This fan fiction is a product of watching Woodland Creature Christmas five times in a row… in April (I mean, when I first worked on this, edited like recently)… and suffers “AU” slaughter… or what-if futurism. It should not be read by anyone who does not understand the term “AU” or “what-if”. David Bowie is God. David Bowie, also, has nothing to do with this disclaimer.
> 
> Let's begin, shall we?

Butters groaned, rubbing a hand over his eyes like the specs would disappear. A piece of gauze was held against his face by two alien fingers underneath his nose, absorbing the salty, pungent liquid. The scent brought another string of nausea to his stomach and his hands crossed in front of his stomach with a half-whine and sniffle. He wanted to bite back the tears forming in the corners of his eyes but they leaked; small rivulets fell down the side of his cheeks, mixing with the woven threads.

“Way to go, Marsh,” Token said, turning his head behind his shoulder to return a heated glare to the Quarterback. “Why don’t you break all of our line backers’ faces in?”

The target was isolated, fist still clenched from where it made contact. His jaw was agape, lower lip quivering. 

“It-” Stan started, cutting himself short. “I didn’t know-” No words could be said—the action had been complete. “Butters, I-”

“It… it… it’s al; right, S-stan,” Butters stammered. The palms of his hands slid to the floor of the bus, rubbing over the thick layer of chalky dust. He pressed down in an attempt to rise but Token placed a hand on his chest holding him in place.

“No, it’s not.” Token frowned, bringing his hand off of the smaller boy’s chest when he turned his attention to Stan once more. “You’re having a lot of behavioral issues-”

“When does Stan not have issues?” Kenny offered with a smile, though his enthusiasm didn’t exactly help the cause.

“Look, point being, I’m Team Captain—you’re star Quarterback. We need you, but we could find a replacement if you don’t chill out. I mean, you shouldn’t get so bent out of shape if we’re ripping on you for something you brought upon yourself.”

“Whoa, wait-” Kyle interrupted in place of his strangely mute best friend. “What exactly do you mean by ‘something he brought upon himself’? We always fight—brawns over brains, that’s our motto, right? What’s the big deal?” 

Checkmate—praise to the Debate Team’s champion. 

Token frowned, teeth closing over the inside of his cheek, smooth tongue running over the roof of his mouth. He was an outsider—an object as the only black student at the school. Phenomenal grammar, gifted musical abilities, and his position on the team were a guarantee into just about any college—a false move could ruin everything, labeling him. There was no answer, no way to word it. Because, really, the labels were what did it, were what killed everything. 

“Just, could you please stop trying to fuck your teammates when we have games? I don’t care what you do after the season so can you refrain until after the playoffs?”

Laughter. 

Escalated laughter. 

Stan sank into his seat, head turning to gaze out the window again. “Not like anyone complained until Butters ratted this out…” 

Through the window’s reflection, he swore he caught Craig’s eye from across the aisle but when he turned around the boy was looking out the window, raising his middle finger each time a truck passed them on the right side with an amused Clyde sitting alongside him. Stan’s body jerked, eyes widening as Kyle placed a hand on his knee. 

“Dude… chill, it’s just me,” Kyle said, voice a low and monotonous rather than the high-pitched, nasally wail it usually held, though that, at times, was in conjunction with his irritation. And allergies. “Look, it’ll pass soon enough, especially since you’re no fun to tease. Least not about this. We want a spazz… speaking of, how long has it been since someone ripped on Tweek?” Stan lifted a brow, the corners of his lips half-turning up into a smirk. Kyle won the battle—for a moment Stan could forget that he was the one to have punched dumb and innocent Butters, though he couldn’t forget that he was the one who made a move on about five teammates. Five friends, most of whom, he assumed, were now former-friends. Five boys he grew up with, cornering them in the midst of post-game laughs about losing by a shorter margin each time. Boys who would never admit to what happened except for one blond boy lacking the social skills and smarts the others possessed who turned him down—a boy who most likely was oblivious to the aftermath of a said-confession. 

Boys will be boys, it was the way of the jungle—kill or be killed.

Currently, Stan was the hunted. Lord of the Flies-type shit.

There were a few claps as Butters was hauled to his feet, Token dusting off the back of his shirt and pants for him. Platonic touches, ones that Stan would brush off. He knew, though, that if he were to touch another, cries of “Fag” and “Queer” would echo around the bus, loudly jested through the locker room. Those who understood the platonic nature wouldn’t stand for it, lest they be called the accursed nickname he would come to possess, and soon.

Butters flushed, cheeks tinting a pale rose tone. “N-now, that’s quite all right. It wasn’t any great feat or nothin’ special.” 

“It’s not every day that a good chap like you gets conked on the noggin, now is it?” Pip replied, patting the seat next to him in offering. He was two seats behind and opposite the aisle to Stan and Kyle—they were two seats behind and opposite the aisle to Stan and Kyle once Butters walked the few seats back. They were odd: the people the popular kids made fun of, the people that wanted to be popular made fun of, and the people who couldn’t care made fun of. This barely changed upon joining the high school football team, though a few people held Butters in higher respect, mostly to their uncanny ability to use him. Pip was another story—it seemed to easy. There was no conscience, no second thought. Only Pip, and his desperation to become accepted and popular.

He wouldn’t become popular. He was the target for spitballs and the one they called “queer” up through middle school. The nicknames died after they spotted Pip kissing Heidi by her locker in seventh grade, plus he was never shaken by the names so that ended up being boring and lame. The British were tough—nothing got to them.

A bang sounded, cracking into the air followed by the screeching of tires. The bus lurched to a stop and Stan nearly lost his balance, hand catching on the seat in front of him for support. Tweek screamed, gripping onto the blond locks of his hair as he curled into a fetal position on one of the seats. 

“What the h-h-hell just h-happened?” Jimmy stuttered, rising to his feet before hobbling to the front of the bus. The piercing sound of Tweek’s cries grated Stan’s nerves. 

“Jesus, Tweek, someone give you a tittie twister or something?” Cartman complained, rising from his seat. The boy followed Jimmy’s slow trek, shoving a hand in the crumpled Tweek’s direction before he continued toward the exit, curious as to the cause of the stop. The wailing boy’s shoulders shook relentlessly, legs jerking to hit the seat back in front of him. 

Stan turned his head to Kyle, opening his lips to make a comment about Tweek’s irrational behavior when Craig rose. He stepped sideways over the front of Clyde’s knees before he walked down the aisle. Coming to a stop by the side of the petrified boy’s seat, he turned and squatted, resting his hands on Tweek’s legs.

“They’re coming, they’re going to get me!” Tweek cried, voice lowering in volume. Craig replied, something too quiet for Stan to hear. Stan strangely longed to stand up and peer down at them, inviting himself into their world, but it seemed almost sacred. 

“They just are! I know they are! Oh God,” the boy stammered. Another low murmur of Craig’s voice. A whisper in reply.

“WHOA! DUDES! SERIOUSLY!!! YOU HAVE TO SEE THIS!!!” Cartman shouted, rushing to the back of the bus. 

“R-r-r-really now, Eric, it’s not th-th-th-thhhhh…th-th-th-thhh… th-th-th…that special,” Jimmy called from outside the door to the bus.

“Shut up, Jimmy! Of course it’s awesome! Seriously dudes, it’s AMAZING!” 

Kyle sighed, glancing sideways at Stan before deciding to humor Cartman. “Did you fart so big you blew up Yellowstone National Park?” 

“No, Jew. Yellowstone is in like China,” Cartman countered, bringing a hand to rub over the bridge of his nose. Kyle stared at him incredulously for a moment.

“You idiot! It’s in Wyoming!”

“Kyle, listen, okay? Incase you didn’t notice, Wyoming is the capital of China-”

“God, Cartman, you are so fucking Stupid!”

“Just tell us what you saw-” Kenny interrupted, tugging the drawstring to his parka a fraction tighter.

“Oh. Oh yeah. DUDES, guys! For REAL! It is by far the coolest thing that has EVER happened to us! The bus hit a gnome and the front axel of the bus completely broke off!!!”

“For real?!” Token asked, face lighting up with excitement.

“Yeah! Like you guys have GOT to see it. I mean, the gnome is completely smushed underneath the wheel and there’s blood everywhere!” Cartman’s voice was cut off with another high pitched squeal.

“AHHHHHHHHHHH!!! I TOLD YOU!!! I TOLD YOU!!! THEY’RE AFTER ME!!! THEY WANT TO KILL ME!!! THEY’RE SENT BY THE SCANDINAVIAN GOVERNMENT TO TRY AND KILL ME!!! GAH! NO ONE BELIEVES ME! WHAT IF THEY KILL ME?! WHAT IF NO ONE NOTICES?!” 

Typical Tweek. 

“Thanks a lot, dick face. Now he wont shut up for at least an hour,” Kevin grunted, though he made his way toward the front of the bus, anxious to see the damage.

“Get over it, spazz,” Cartman jeered toward the boy though he was too consumed with his find to care. He turned his back to the group, flab jiggling as he ran to see the carnage once more. 

“Damage sounds pretty bad—I hope we’re not stranded here for awhile,” Kyle muttered as he stepped into the aisle. Stan slid out, following Kyle closely. His body lightly collided with Kyle’s as he came to a stop. He turned his head, half-looking around Kyle, eyes widening.

Craig slid onto Tweek’s seat, his palm resting on the boy’s back as his fingers drummed on his side. He sat next to the boy, his legs nearly entwined with the jerking boy’s motions. Tweek’s body quivered, eyes as wide as saucers. The whites nearly overcame the faint blue in his eyes, swallowing the water like the foam on the waves.

“Not coming?” Kyle asked, aiming the direction at Craig. Craig shrugged his shoulders.

“I’ll pass. I can see road kill whenever.”

“Is he going to be all right?” Kyle added. Craig lifted his free hand, middle finger elevating. Kyle shrugged, shoving his hands in his pockets. “Well, if you change your mind you know where we’ll be.”

Stan’s brows furrowed but he said nothing, leaving the gentle murmurs and subsiding wails behind in favor of destruction. But, as he turned to move with Kyle out of the bus, he heard it—something soft and faint and barely there:

“I won’t let them kill you.”

The words were so quiet and alien that Stan wasn’t sure if he heard them correctly. He glanced behind his shoulder, Craig’s body out of sight. There were a few whimpers then a moan and a second moan. A calmness. He was Tweek’s drug.

“Stan, you coming?” Kyle asked, tugging at his best friend’s sleeve as he stood on the steps to the bus, the limbo between a peaceful serene and chaotic outdoors.

Stan took a deep breath and exited the bus.


	5. Carnage and Complacency

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: South Park is the creation of Matt Stone and Trey Parker. Beware of girls in pleated mini-skirts; you could have an accident. This fan fiction was inspired by a ferocious wedgie—to which the author hopes no one else will endure—and suffers “AU” slaughter… or what-if futurism. Or just fucked up shit. It should not be read by anyone who does not understand the term “AU” or “what-if”. Or well, anyone in general. Really, don't read it. Boxer-briefs are comfortable. Except when they give you a wedgie.
> 
> Let's begin, shall we?

 

Smog rose from underneath the bus’s hood, billowing into a thick trail to the skies. The axel had snapped in two, each side ignited, a small flair of flames. Hanging from the low branch of a tree was the front bumper; it was dangling precariously as if daring someone to walk underneath. The most prominent feature was the after-affect—the dark carnation of blood smeared from a thick circle in the center of a road, paint-streaked with the thick residue of diced meat. It would have been indistinguishable were it not for the ripped green fabric painted for Christmas with the adorning red colors stuck to the left front wheel, and not far to its side the remains of a severed head coated with the crimson paste.

 

Absolute carnage—it was the only way Stan could describe the scene; absolute power would be the way Cartman would recount it. The pudgy boy’s teeth glinted in the reflecting glow of the fire, face lit in wonder at its majestic destruction. The fire beckoned him, opening a gateway with its sacred gift. It was a force not many could combat, and the answer to domination. “Shweeeeeet,” he murmured, lips curling up to engulf his cheeks.

 

“Great, this is just great!” the bus driver complained, drawing two hands to his head. “New route, new job. Thanks a lot, South Park, Colorado.” His nose wrinkled in the place of a snort. “Since there seems to be no cell phone reception, looks like I’ll have walk to the nearest gas station. You’ll have to fend for yourselves until then.”

 

“I’ll man the place,” Cartman offered, the same sickening grin never leaving his face. “I am filled with authorit-ay.”

 

God. Nothing had changed through the years, not from accents to temperaments as the driver grunted walking away.

 

“…hey guys, I don’t think it’s a gnome,” Clyde said, squatted near the ground as he prodded at it with a twig. “Its head is pretty big.”

 

            “Yeah, and there’s all this blood,” Token added, wrinkling his nose. “Smells really bad, too.”

 

            “Maybe it’s a midget or something,” Clyde continued, poking the head. A section of the skin peeled off and he dropped the stick as he scrambled backward. “Sick.”

 

            “It does seem kind of big for a gnome,” Kyle added, finally stepping close to observe the damage.

 

            “It better not be a midget; I hate midgets,” Cartman grunted. “Midgets are so creepy, especially when they do porn and like show up on Jerry Springer and have midget porn on the show and they screw up a censor bar.”

 

            “You’re so full of shit, Cartman,” Kyle groaned.

 

            “Yeah—Midget porn is hot!”

 

            The heads of everyone in the vicinity turned, eyes locking on Kenny’s face. Shoulders rising along with his hands in defense, Kenny added, “What? It is. At least the ones with Cartman’s Mom.”

 

            “God damn it, Kenny! Would you shut the hell up? It’s a gnome! I’ve seen them before.”

 

            “The ones in Tweek’s room were a lot smaller,” Stan stepped in, speaking for the first time since he exited the bus. “Can’t we just ask him?”

 

            “And deal with him for another hour? Real smart, Stan.” Kyle sighed and rubbed his hand over his forehead. “Look, it’s not even that big of a deal. I mean, we’re not even betting on what it is or anything. We should be figuring out where to set up camp for the night incase the bus catches on fire or we’d die from the fumes.”

 

            “Nay-nay, Jew. I have been put in charge of this adventure and I vote that we bring Tweek out here and find out whether it’s a gnome or a midget. Ten bucks on a gnome.”

 

            “Ten on midget,” Token replied immediately.

 

            “Guys, are you even listening to what I’m saying? We could _die_. I think distinguishing what the mess is under the wheel would be a great vocational hobby is we WEREN’T stranded in the middle of nowhere!” Kyle argued.

 

            “…can I put ten on a troll?” Clyde asked shortly followed by Kyle’s furious scream.

 

            “Fine. Fine, get Tweek and see if I care when we all DIE.”

 

Stan smirked at Kyle, lips faintly curling at the edges. “Dude, it’s cool…” He had to admit, it was better with the attention was off of him. Throwing slams at one’s sexual orientation was certainly secondary to a bet, especially when Cartman was involved. Shaking his head with accepted defeat, Kyle sighed.

 

            “You’re right, Stan. It’s just that this is ridiculous. Just because they couldn’t care less about sleeping on the grass doesn’t mean we have to follow suit.”

 

            “It’ll be like camping by Stark’s Pond,” Stan chimed in.

 

Kyle blinked before his eyes widened, a smile gracing his face. “You’re right. It’s been forever since we’ve done that. We had so many good times there.”

 

            “Yeah, like remember when Kenny got all those bottle rockets and set them off over the pond and we nearly got arrested?” Stan said, hand rubbing the back of his neck.

 

            “Or us roasting potato chips over the fire and nearly wiped out the forest?” Kyle added, walking toward the bus.

 

Stan stayed by his side as they moved to the base, pulling the hinge to release the storage bin. Having been disturbed in the crash, the team’s duffle bags and supply kits lay in disarray. Stan gripped onto the floor base and pulled himself in, kneeling as he pulled bag after bag toward the edge and passed them unto Kyle.

 

            “Dude,” Kyle chirped, a laugh already escaping. “Remember when we had to tell Cartman that he wasn’t allowed to use the bathroom and he used poison ivy to wipe? That was sick!”

 

            Stan couldn’t hold back his full-bellied laugh. He rest his palms on the floor, cheeks flushed a dark shade of red.

 

            “That was almost as funny as when he didn’t cover his shit and you stepped in it!”

 

            “Dude! That so was _not_ funny!” Kyle replied, unable to keep a straight face. He reached into the storage hold and pulled out another bag, smiling as it held his initials on it. “Say, Stan?”

 

            “Yeah?” He rocked forward so his knuckles were against the metal base, stance much resembling a primate. Confidence—an exerted sense of self.

 

            “I haven’t heard you laugh in a really long time.”

 

            The smile died, corners of his lips falling along with his shoulders. He rocked back until he was sitting, legs outstretched in front of him. Kyle’s forehead creased, three lines forming. Kyle pulled himself up into the luggage compartment. Shifting his weight, he sat next to Stan, scooting backward so they were parallel.

 

            “I miss you,” Kyle said. Stan’s shoulders tensed.

 

Kyle continued, “A lot. I mean… hell, I don’t know.” He stalled, pulling his lower lip into his mouth. His front teeth held his lip in place refraining from grating his molars together. It was a nervous habit he picked up along the years, becoming so natural that often Stan didn’t notice it. “It’s like you’re holding back from me. Like you don’t even want to be friends with me.”

 

            “Kyle, you know that’s not true-”

 

            “Is it?”

 

            “Dude, Kyle, you’re my best friend. Always. You just don’t understand--”

 

            “Then teach me.”

 

            Warmth.

 

            Stan’s head turned, lowering to where Kyle placed a bare hand over his gloved one. It was difficult to refrain from touch sometimes, and sometimes it was difficult to tolerate it. Stan sighed reluctantly and pulled his knee toward his chest.

 

            “Try to think of it this way. Your whole life you grow up puking on anything that grossed you out—your girlfriend, perfume, hospitals, blood wounds, old people, lesbians, gay cowboys eating pudding—hey, maybe that was the prerequisite to _Brokeback Mountain_. Well, whatever. I mean, you live in irrational fear and get harassed constantly for it. You end up liking cock. It’s fucking weird.”

 

            “You don’t like being gay?”

 

            “Not if the guys keep treating me like I’m so different than everyone.” Stan rubbed his free hand over the top of his knee. “I mean… it was cool when I told you. You know, before this whole mess happened.”

 

            “You said I was the first you told. That was about two years ago, wasn’t it?” Kyle asked, turning his body. He sat cross-legged, hands moving to knit together and rest just over the sides of his hiking boots.

 

           “I guess. Then Kenny found out but he doesn’t rat so it was cool.” Stan frowned and drew his arms around his other knee, pulling both to his chest. “I made a mistake when I hit on Butters.”

 

            “Butters?” Kyle snorted as he tried to refrain from laughing. “Why the hell would you hit on _him_ of all people?”

 

            “Shut up, dude. I mean…” Stan paused. “Honestly, I don’t know. Maybe just to see how far I could push it, or to try and see if a guy might actually be like me. I guess I thought he’d be easy—probably I deserved what I got.” As Kyle’s brow quirked, he quickly added, “Rejection.”

 

Kyle nodded. No questions would be asked—nothing would be inquired about anyone else. The incident with Craig would be left in the dark; it would be taken to both of their graves.

 

            “Did you try with any of the others?” Kyle tested, hedging. Stan’s lips moved, circulating in an awkward motion. His tongue rubbed the roof of his mouth.

 

            “…no.”

 

            Kyle sighed but said nothing. The answer was obvious.

 

            “Did you… you know?”

 

            _“I told you I’d kill you if you told anyone.”_ Stan’s eyes squeezed shut. The hold on his knees tightened, head ducking to hide. _“Roll over.”_ His breath caught, body stiffening.

 

            “Stan?” Kyle asked, extending a hand to grip his shoulder.

_Stan's eyes closed and he obeyed, fingers gripping the bed as his boxers were yanked off. The corner of a pillow was shoved into his mouth. Craig's right hand pressed hard in between the quarterback's shoulder blades holding him flat against the mattress; his left hand tore a wrapper open. After a moment, Craig leg go, hands gripping onto Stan's hips, slamming an endowed length inside without so much a simple preparation. Stan screamed, muted by the thickness of the pillow as the slams came harder and faster, skin slapping against skin. He felt something tear, a wet heat, and slammed back hard against Craig before Craig groaned and pulled out._

“Stan!”

            _“Get a shower and sleep on the floor.”_

            “What’s it to you, Kyle?!” His chest rose and fell quickly, eyes squeezing shut. His body stiffened, feeling the surrounding warmth and pressure of arms wrapping around his shoulders. He turned his body, allowing a hand to lift and grip Kyle’s coat, head resting against his shoulder.

 

            “Shh… it’s okay. I’m sorry. Look, you don’t have to tell me. Okay, Stan? I just want to hear you laugh again,” Kyle murmured, a hand lifting to sift through the few black hairs that poked out from beneath his hat.

 

            “Hey guys?” Both boys lifted their heads, turning to face the soft-spoken Kenny. Stan’s body stiffened but Kyle remained, arms wrapped protectively around the boy.

 

            “What’s up, Kenny?”

 

            “Craig’s bringing Tweek out of the bus and we’re going to see if he can identify what we killed then make a bonfire and see if the mess is edible, but if you two want to keep making out that’s cool by me.” He offered a friendly smile.

 

Kyle snorted, laughing as he kicked a leg out at Kenny. “Sure, we’ll be out once we finish with the bags.” He clapped Stan on the back then pulled from him, crawling on his hands and knees to pull the few remaining duffle bags from the back of the compartment. With Kenny lifting each bag down and both Kyle and Stan tugging the bags, the bin was emptied quickly.

 

            “OH JESUS, THIS IS TOO MUCH PRESSURE!”

 

            “Come on,” Kenny urged, putting an arm around both Kyle and Stan’s shoulders as they hopped down from the bus. “The entertainment is just about to begin.”


	6. No Offense, Stanley, but that's Gay

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: South Park is the creation of Matt Stone and Trey Parker. Fan fiction is the creation of people who are completely insane, like me. I swear, I didn’t run away from a mental institution to create this story. At least not this time when I decided to edit it. I swear the above is absolutely, 100% true if I can plead the fifth. Wait, that's not quite right. Sigur Rós is God. Sigur Rós has absolutely nothing to do with this fanfic. 
> 
> Let's begin, shall we?

Tweek’s eyes blinked in rapid succession, pupils locked on the slain flesh. The disarray of his hair seemed to reflect the destruction that lay before him. Stan, Kyle, and Kenny approached only to join the demi-circle formed behind the one frail boy. They were outsiders, observant to the world of chaotic aftermath inside a self-constructed snow globe. The insider was deaf and dumb to the watchers as he took a step closer.

His hear jerked to the side, hands continuously trembling though his arms rest quietly along his sides. Knees buckling, he fell to the ground—a choked cry escaping the back of his throat.

“Dude, is he okay?” Kyle asked. He stepped closer, their globe becoming smaller as the movement drew the other teammates in. Tweek’s hair was a reflection of the sun; the outsiders were none other than planets, satellites, ad rockets orbiting the source, tugged closer by the thread of gravitation.

“Man, this is taking forever. I’m bored,” Stan muttered. Cartman rolled his eyes, arms crossing in front of his chest.

“Stan, listen, okay? You need to take that butt plug out of your ass and respect my authorit~ay!”

The boys snickered, save for Stan and Kyle. Stan stalled, eyes shifting from side to side before his face lit up. He could put it in his favor. Swing it around.

“Just so you know, a butt plug would put anyone in a good mood, not a bad one—I asked your mom about it last Thursday.” Stan started to laugh, expecting the others to join him ,though he was greeted by silence. The eyes of the boys burned his sides. “Dude… it was a joke-” he continued, laughter dying as it lost vigor, face contorting.

“Fag,” Clyde said plainly, turning his head to watch Tweek again.

“A joke, guys! A joke!” Stan protested.

“Well, gee Stan, didn’t Token say that you should wait until after our playoffs to make lewd comments?” Butters addressed, oblivious to the boys’ laughter, as if he had forgotten that Stan had punched him in the face not even a few hours ago. 

“Wait-what? Guys! We joke like this all the time! It was a rip on Cartman’s mom-”

“No offense, Stanley,” Pip interjected. “-but that’s pretty gay.”

“What?” Stan’s voice cracked into a squeak. If he had a gun, he’d shoot himself in the head. Brains everywhere, no question.

“It’s simply not funny if you’re gay. It’s like Token making a Black joke or Kyle making a Jew joke.”

“Dude! That’s like, backward! You shouldn’t make fun of other people-”

“But you do it all the time, don’t you?” Pip asked, hands locking together as his fingers interlaced.

“Guys-” Stan protested though he wasn’t heard.

Tweek rose to his feet, skin a yellowing tint. His hands still trembled, moving in front of his stomach as if to compress it from nausea. His left eye blinked in sporadic twitches, body still convulsing. 

“Jesus Christ, it took you long enough,” Cartman complained, rubbing his hands together. “So, what is it? A gnome right?”

The blond’s teeth grated against each other, grinding bits of bone apart. “…I don’t know.”

“You WHAT?” Cartman snapped. 

“I don’t know! I DON’T KNOW!!! I’ve never seen anything like that! It’s too big for the Scandinavian Gnomes unless they’re doing new genetic research and—OH GOD! THAT’S IT! THEY’RE COMING TO KILL ME!” His breath came quickly and he ran forward, trying to shove through the group though Token and Craig gripped onto his shoulders holding him in place.

“Whoa, easy, Tweek. Easy,” Token comforted. “It’s not out to kill you because it’s dead.”

“That’s the thing!” he protested, voice now a hushed whisper. “They die… you think they’re dead and you’re safe for the time being. Then, when they notice that one’s dead they send another three days later… and then another… and another. One by one we’ll be picked off until we’re destroyed.”

“Tweek, our bus just broke down. Surely we wont even be here more than a day,” Token tried to reason. “Besides, you have all of us here. And Craig. I don’t think anyone would want to fuck with him.” Hearing the faint mention of his name, Craig lifted up a hand in salute to the skies. His middle finger pivoted, eyes narrowed at Token.

The boy still persisted, head shaking from side to side. “Gah! Er! No one… no one believes me. Just… you guys think I’m crazy. I’ll prove it to you. But by then one of us will be dead!” 

Cartman’s hands moved to his hips as he moved, halting only inches in front of the blond. “Tweek, I’m giving you to the count of five to tell us that it was a gnome under the wheel.”

“What? Cartman, that’s cheating!” Clyde whined. 

“It is not.”

“Is too.”

“AY~! RESPECT MAH AUTHORIT~AY!” 

Another typical fight. No matter the circumstance, Cartman couldn’t stay out of trouble. He seemed to relish in the arguments, perhaps knowing that otherwise he would be ignored. He would always be the hated, manipulative fat kid—never the weak. 

“Fellows, please!” Pip interrupted, stepping in between Clyde and Cartman. Tweek took the opportunity to duck and sprint, pulling away from his surrounding teammates. Pip stopped by Kenny, breath rising and falling in quick heaves. “We really should be figuring out a way to set camp—it’s getting dark and who knows when help will arrive.”

“He’s right,” Token sighed. He turned his back to the now-smoldering flesh as it burned and absorbed the fumes from the crash. “Everyone, get your things. We’ll stay right here-” He started to walk a perimeter approximately twenty feet from the side of the bus. “Incase it falls, we’ll be in the clear. We’ll also be able to use the bus as a windshield. Who can start a fire?”

“AY~! Token, in case you weren’t listening, I was assigned to lead everyone through this adventure-” Cartman countered. Token barely lifted his brow before his shoulders shrugged.

“As I was saying, who can start a fire?”

“Damn it, sonuvabitch,” Cartman mumbled, reluctantly conceding. 

“Man, getting stranded really sucks,” Kyle complained, turning his back to the group. “I’m starving—you guys want any Challah Rolls?”

“ACK!” 

“Oh… forgot you were here, Tweek. You can come too, I guess,” Kyle mumbled, certainly less enthused than he was a few minutes ago.

“Free food? I’m in,” Kenny chirped, patting Kyle on the back. Stan glanced at the trio before toward the group. Token was trying to coax a reluctant Craig into retrieving firewood to start the bonfire while Cartman spewed out every reason for him not to. Stan wasn’t sure if he would be able to tell the outcome.

“Stan? Earth to Stan! Come in, Marsh!” Kenny moved a hand in front of the boy’s head until he jerked, snapping back to the present. “Dude, what bug crawled up your ass?” he asked. “I mean, seriously. You and Kyle are cute.”

“Whoa, wait, cute? Huh? Dude, sick, Kenny. He’s my best friend,” Kyle protested, arms folding in front of his chest. 

“Best friends who wake up in each other’s arms that I found in the storage-”

“How come people aren’t making fun of Kyle for gah! You know,” Tweek interrupted. Shoulders shaking, he moved closer to Kenny’s side.

“Because Stan’s the fag and Kyle’s not?” 

“Kenny!” Stan’s eyes widened. “You’re supposed to be my friend!” 

Kenny shrugged his shoulders, eyes twinkling mischievously. “Patience,” he murmured, the mumble barely audible as he tightened his parka.

“Well, come on, guys. I’m starving and I don’t want to have to share with Cartman,” Kyle said, leading the group back toward the fire. With each step, Stan glanced toward Kenny and frowned. What did he even mean by that? Patience? People couldn’t change. A useless dream.


	7. Prematurity Happens

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> South Park is the creation of Matt Stone and Trey Parker. Beware of Boogiemen. The plot may have the potential to endure “AU” slaughter… or what-if futurism. It should not be read by anyone who does not understand the term “AU” or “what-if”. “Rock the Cashbah” was a Great Clash song. It was also covered by the Solar Twins. Neither band has anything to do with this disclaimer and/or any unusual cravings for macaroni and cheese.
> 
> Let's begin, shall we?

Stan, Kyle, Kenny, and Tweek sat on the ground behind the broken bus after Kyle retrieved four of the Jewish treats. Dolling one to each, he promised that there would be more for later when they were starving. Kenny flipped back the hood of his parka before his mouth greedily closed over the treat, loudly chomping at the morsels. Home baked goods were a luxury, certainly beating his family’s consistent meals of canned vegetables, frozen waffles, and condiments that Kenny stole from the team’s hotel rooms if he got there before Cartman. Kenny couldn’t remember ever turning down a meal or any offering of food—he never knew when the next time he would eat a full meal would be.

Tweek sat to Kenny’s right, hands shaking so violently that he was barely able to bring the food to his lips. He chewed quickly, teeth chattering as he moistened the morsels on his tongue then swallowed. His eyes shifted from boy to boy, swallowing anxiously in anticipation—anticipation for what other than the flock of vengeful, mutant gnomes plotting the slow destruction and demise of the football team. Darwin’s Theory of Evolution—only the strong would survive. He shook his head, extending the treat to the orange hooded boy as his shoulders jerked. “C-can’t. No more.” Kenny barely nodded in acknowledgement, let alone took the time to give thanks, as his hand snaked out over the pastry, closed his fingers over the treat, then devoured it in a few quick bites. 

“You really do eat anything,” Kyle murmured, shaking his head with mild amazement. Growing up with Kenny had given the boys immunity to his antics and survival codes. The quad turned their heads in near unison as several hoots and hollers sounded accompanied by the thick scent of burning wood and smoke. 

“Bonfire’s made,” Stan murmured absently. He rose to his feet, hands brushing the front of his jeans off before his hands slid into the back pockets. Without waiting for the other three, he stalked toward the commotion. Greeted by the warm, amber glow of the raging fire, Stan walked around it twice before settling himself on a trunk of a clearly cut tree. The slain plant lay a few feet from the base of the fire, the base splintered from where it had been unceremoniously hacked at until it plummeted to its early demise. Clearly the tree slayer had been lazy as the branches and foliage still remained near the top. 

Stan extended his hands toward the flames, stretching his legs in front of him to absorb the heat as the boys began to pillage their things, assembling themselves on the logs-benches. The trio Stan left behind came shortly, sitting on one of the trunks across from Stan, giving him his space. Like they thought they were being kind even though the last thing he wanted was to stray.

Stan was startled when Clyde sat beside him, stocky arm brushing his shoulder. “Craig knows his tinder,” the boy said absently, inclining his torso toward the warmth. “He got the fire going within three minutes.” 

“Sorry I didn’t help with that,” Stan said, shoulders shrugging as he side-glanced toward the other male. He noticed the other wore sweaters constantly, most likely to hide the extra bulk. Sensitive about his weight ever since they were nine and called him the next fattest kid to Cartman, Clyde went to great lengths to hide his physique. It made Stan feel horrible although he couldn’t remember ever apologizing. He couldn’t even remember a time when Clyde ever ate anything unhealthy. Genetics, slow metabolism, excuses the night they stayed in the same hotel room. Stan didn’t even notice until Clyde asked if he was crushing him while he straddled the other’s waist. And then, it wasn’t a problem. Clyde was good looking, just a different sort than Stan.

Thinking about it, Clyde wasn’t quite like the bulk of the students at South Park—he was virtuous, humble even. Kind. 

Stan’s eyes shifted as Clyde drew the heel of his boot against Stan’s sneaker, tapping it three times. Unspoken code. Returning his eyes to the fire, Stan drew his heel to the side, colliding against the thicker canvas in the same repetition. Clyde rose, making a gesture of getting water while he walked away from the fire and slipped behind the broken bus. Stan didn’t even wait for Clyde to completely disappear before he followed. Meeting Clyde on the hidden side, they both walked toward the thickness and darkness of the woods. They barely could see, but they could sense. Smell, touch. Encased in blackness, Stan felt Clyde’s hands move to his waist, circling around the small of his back.

“Say it,” Clyde whispered, short plea evident by the tone of his strained voice. “The way you said it before.” 

Stan smiled, blindly inclining his head forward before his teeth grazed over Clyde’s thick scarf masking his slightly protruding jugular vein. “I can make you feel good, better than anyone. It could be our secret. We won’t talk.” Stan’s teeth closed over Clyde’s scarf and he tugged. The wool pulled loose, exposing tender, untouched skin. Stan’s head lowered, teeth sinking over Clyde’s skin as he suckled it black. Clyde’s head tilted back, a short, uncontrolled moan rising from the back of his throat as he clawed at the clasp to his own belt. Stan released his hold, by instinct sliding down to his knees. Expectancy. Ability to deliver.

Five minutes. Barely.

Clyde apologized as he brushed his thumb by the side of Stan’s face before he zipped his fly again. Readjusting his scarf, he glanced to the side.

“Are you mad at me?” Clyde asked softly.

“It happens,” Stan murmured. “Compliments to me, I guess.” Stan turned to walk back but stopped; he didn’t hear accompanying footsteps, couldn’t sense Clyde there. “Waiting for Manbearpig or Tweek’s mutant gnomes?”

“Was I bad?”

“Huh?” Stan turned around, jaw slacking slightly. 

“You’ve been with other guys before… was I bad?” Again with self-consciousness—the boy never seemed to let it drop.

“You’re fine. Sometimes people get off a little too soon if they’re feeling good. Or maybe you were thinking of someone else.”

Clyde rubbed his hands together, unsatisfied with Stan’s answer. Stan noticed Clyde didn’t touch the suggestion, whoever Clyde was thinking of. “Hey, Stan? Who’d you hook up with on the team?”

_Stan's eyes closed and he obeyed, fingers gripping the bed as his boxers were yanked off. The corner of a pillow was shoved into his mouth. Craig's right hand pressed hard in between the quarterback's shoulder blades holding him flat against the mattress; his left hand tore a wrapper open. After a moment, Craig leg go, hands gripping onto Stan's hips, slamming an endowed length inside without so much a simple preparation. Stan screamed, muted by the thickness of the pillow as the slams came harder and faster, skin slapping against skin. He felt something tear, a wet heat, and slammed back hard against Craig before Craig groaned and pulled out. The condom was unpeeled and thrown in the trash can._

“I can’t say,” Stan replied hoarsely. The leaves crackled under his feet as he took a step backward. 

_“Roll over,”_ he heard Craig say in his head, and Stan got hard again. 

Clyde didn’t answer but he nodded. He took a few steps forward then scooted to catch up to Stan. “You know why Craig beat you up, right?”

Stan said nothing. His head was locked forward as each leg moved in rapid progression.

“Craig told me. He feels awful, even if he won’t admit it. It’s probably not what you think either-”

“Do you want me to tell you off or something?” Stan snapped. 

Not another word was exchanged as they returned toward their companions by the fire and, once they reached the amiable commotion, both turned separate ways.


	8. The Wrong Answer

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is no Disclaimer. Only Zuul.

The commotion that came hand-in-hand with the bonfire was quick to die down, leaving the team with an abnormal, awkward silence save for the sounds of the night and crackling fire. Butters, the ever optimistic one, was the first to break it.

“Well, say fellows,” he began, rubbing his hands together for warmth. “Why don’t we play a game or somethin’?” 

“Like what, Butters?” Cartman grunted, voice thickened with feign interest. “There aren’t any girls here to play stupid kissing games with, oh, except for Stan.”

“Fuck you, fat ass!” Stan retorted, folding his arms in front of his stomach.

“No thanks, fag,” Cartman said.

“Aw jeez, fellas,” Jimmy stuttered, trying to bring Butters’ idea back to life. “I would have though that a g-game would be f-f-fuuuuu… f-f-fuuuu… f-f-“

“But what kind of game could be fun?” Token interrupted. “I mean, sleepovers are for chicks, right?”

“Not necessarily, Token. You s-s-see, I play Truth or Dare all the time with Craig and Clyde,” Jimmy supplied. “And it doesn’t seem so ef-ef-ef-effemin—eff—effeminate to me.”

“To you? You weren’t the one dared to take off all your clothes save for a sombrero and do the Mexican Hat Dance on webcam with Red!” Clyde whined, hands rising above his head in protest though they lowered to retie his scarf. Craig didn’t refrain from snickering, only spurring Clyde’s neuroticism. “It wasn’t funny!”

“Sure it wasn’t, Pedro,” Craig said, teeth glinting in a smile as Clyde drew an elbow out in a weak attempt to shove Craig off of the large tree trunk they were sitting upon. 

“I’m game for it,” Craig continued. “You have to be a real man to play Truth or Dare.”

“Gah! No way!” Tweek interjected. “That is way too much pressure!!! You have to decide which you choose then GAH! No way!”

“Simmer down, Tweek,” Craig replied, voice calmer and quieter. “You can always choose truth. Then all you have to do is answer a question.”

“GAH! ARE YOU KIDDING ME??? WHAT IF I GET THE WRONG ANSWER???”

Silence.

More silence.

“Um, Tweek, dear chap,” Pip said, laughing anxiously. “There aren’t wrong answers when you choose Truth. You just have to reply. It’s awfully fun.”

“Now, I’m not sure about this, fellows-” Butters started, shaking his head slightly. “The last time I played Truth or Dare, my parents found out that I was dared to touch Wendy’s hooters and I got grounded.”.

Stan.’s jaw dropped. “Dude! You groped my ex-girlfriend???” 

“Well, not exactly. I mean, you two were still together ‘n all-” before Butters could even finish his sentence, the group broke into hard laughter.

“Wendy cheated on me with you?” Disbelief was plastered to Stan’s face before it morphed to anger. His cheeks flushed. Kenny gripped onto his sides, body rocking sideways to rest against Cartman’s shoulder as he spouted milk from his nose.

“Oh God, buhahahaha! Stan, you fucking homo! Wendy chose Butters over you! HAHAHA!”

“Hey, knock it off, fat ass,” Kyle defended. “Truth or Dare is the lamest game ever made, anyway.”

“Oh yeah?” Cartman retorted. “I didn’t realize that Jews were also chickens.”

“Shut up, fat ass! We are not!”

“It’s true-” Cartman jided. “You’re afraid of getting dared. You’re afraid of what could happen to you, isn’t that right?”

“Knock it off, Cartman,” Kyle growled.

“Why?” he replied simply. “It’s because I’m right. You Jews are all the same—able to dish it out but can’t take the pressure. What are you gonna do, Kyle? You gonna prove Mel Gibson wrong?” 

The red-haired boy’s eyes narrowed into small darts, inner fire blazing. “Fine. I chose ‘dare,’ fat ass.” The growl remained in his throat, bordering on a snarl. “Give it your best shot.” 

“All right, Kyle,” Cartman started slowly, enunciating each syllable.

“Kyle, you sure you want to go through with this?” Stan asked. “You don’t need to.”

“Yeah, it’ll shut him up for a bit.”

“Kyle!” Cartman snapped, trying to draw his attention again. Once Kyle’s face turned toward his, he continued. “I dare you to go down on-”

“NO!” Kyle glanced at Stan, eyes wide.

“-on Clyde,” Cartman finished.

“Wait—what?” Stan blinked then shook his head. He was hearing things. He had to. Clyde? Clyde Donovan? Not himself, the outed queer on the football team? Not him, when he and Kyle had been best friends since always? Cartman always ripped on him and Kyle, unless…

“DUDE! SICK!” Kyle squealed, gripping onto his stomach.

Stan’s eyes shifted to Clyde. 

“YOU WANT ME TO BLOW CLYDE?”

Not even an hour before…

“I’D RATHER EAT ROAD KILL THAN SUCK DICK!”

Cartman knew. He fucking _knew._

“Bastard-” Stan hissed, ignoring the perplexed look Kenny gave him. 

“Y-you can’t do that to me!” Clyde protested shrilly, balling his fists. “I don’t consent!”

“Whatever Clyde. It has to be you.”

“I’m STRAIGHT!” Kyle protested louder.

“I won’t do this!” Clyde shrieked.

“It’s a fucking dare—get over it,” Cartman said, rolling his eyes. “Stop being such a goddamn pussy, Clyde.”

“I don’t want to do it! You can’t make me!” Clyde’s eyes glistened, a prerequisite to tears.

“What are you going to do, Clyde? Cry for your mommy like you always do? Your mommy isn’t here, is she?” Cartman drawled.

“That’s enough, Cartman-” Craig interrupted, placing a hand on Clyde’s shoulder. “Just get it over with quickly, okay bud?”

Stan quirked a brow. No raised middle fingers. No death threats. Don’t fuck with my friends. It didn’t make sense. Why did Craig hate Stan so much? It didn’t make sense, not when Craig seemed cool with everyone else.

Stan’s heart rate quickened as Kyle grudgingly stood up. “I hate you so much, Cartman. I hope you burn in hell.”

“Yeah, yeah. Stupid Jew. I’m going to Heaven,” he snorted. “Get to it.” 

Kyle trudged to the other side of the bonfire. Clyde, reluctantly, unbuckled his belt and slid his fly down before he slid a hand inside. Stan’s eyes moved to Clyde’s face then to the scarf wrapped so tightly around his neck, hiding his hickeys. He glared at Cartman.

A cruel smile played on Cartman’s lips. “You fags were gone for a long time. I want to see you miserable, Stan. I hate you so much. Almost as much as I hate Kyle.”

“Why are you doing this to me?” he whispered back.

“Because I want to see you cry.” 

The answer was so simple, so plain. And yet, it was so typical of Cartman. A simple act that meant so much. And like hell would Stan give in and break down. Not if he could help it. 

“Dude, that’s pretty harsh,” Kenny mumbled, startling Stan for a brief moment. He knew. He knew as well. How many of them knew? Not Kyle, but could Craig? Was his encouragement payback? 

Stan watched Kyle’s back as he sank to his knees.

“Do I look like I care?” Cartman replied, arms folding over his chest.

Clyde’s hands rested on Kyle’s shoulders.

 

When Stan’s eyes opened, he discovered that he was lying on his back. Kyle, Pip, Tweek and Token loomed over him, eyes beaded in worried concentration.

“Nhn, what happened?” Stan asked groggily. 

“You just started to puke or something. Then you fainted,” Token said. “I’ve never seen anything like it. You okay?”

“GAH! You freaked us out, man!” Tweek jittered, eyes shifting toward Pip. The blond, British boy nodded his head.

“Indeed. We were awfully worried about you. You were unconscious for quite a few minutes-”

“Did you do it?”

Stan’s interruption was abrupt, and three of the four surrounding boys took their cue to leave. Kyle shoved his hands in the back pockets of his slacks.

“Did you?” Stan repeated.

Another silence.

“…you did.” Stan rose to his feet, shoulders rounded over. “I hate that.”

“Stan?” Kyle asked gently.

“Forget it,” Stan said, walking toward the fallen tree trunk Kenny sat on. He allowed his body to fall on it, arms folding over his stomach as he gazed into the fire.

“You okay?” Kenny asked. 

“Leave me alone,” Stan mumbled. He stared at the fire, the red emblems glittering in the corners of his eyes while he rocked back and forth. The sensation of someone sitting next to him became present but he wasn’t aware of the gesture. His shoulders flinched as the heavy weight rested on them.

“It’s not like you, Stan,” Kyle said softly, a sadness tinting his voice. “It’s not like you at all. I don’t get it.”

“Could you love me?” Stan asked, rocking his weight forward. 

Silence. 

Kyle released Stan’s shoulders. 

Stan rubbed his eyes. “That’s why you don’t get it,” Stan said softly, resigned. “That’s why you _can’t._ ”


	9. The First Slaughter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: THEY GOT ME! THOSE DAMN SKEKSES! MY EYES! MY HANDS! …okay. Maybe that’s still not a good enough excuse to gain the rights to South Park, but allow me the liberty of trying.
> 
> Disclaimer Pt2: South Park is REALLY the creation of Matt Stone and Trey Parker. Beware of hidden Budda-esque messages. This fan fiction may suffer slaughtering. Literally. It should not be read by anyone who does not understand the term “AU”. Or anyone. Really, don't read this. Peace be with you. Meditating is the key to writing. Buddha says to become a better person, you should review. 
> 
> P.S. Buddha says he didn’t really say that and that the author should fess up.  
> …blame this disclaimer on Samuel L. Jackson.  
> Just because we can.
> 
> Let’s begin, shall we?

Upon settling in for the night, the football team decided that a few select groups would alternate keeping watch for the night. It wasn’t so much a suggestion, but a demand from Token. No one could exactly say what the reason was for keeping guard other than to somewhat soothe the nerves of the paranoid Tweek for their own benefit of sleep, but the vote was unanimous once Token brought it up: there would be teams watching, and they would start with Butters.

Butters rubbed his hands together, reluctantly conceding to his fate of keeping the first four-hour block. To follow, he would wake up Pip for the next four hours. Pip would then wake up Butters again to keep guard until all the boys rose in the daylight hours. 

Really, what could anyone expect from the boys at South Park High? 

The plan seemed perfect until Tweek yelled that he would stay up, not trusting Butters or Pip to keep guard. Token rubbed his hand over his forehead in a brief contemplation before Craig’s hand rose. With fairly little planning, and short consultation, it was declared that Tweek and Craig would stay up for the first three hours, Butters would keep guard the second three hours, and Pip would take control for the last three hours before waking the group and, should the team wish to sleep more, they would take turns throwing their shoes at the boy and call him a “damn Frenchie.”

The bulk of the team moved alongside their broken bus, grabbing what few clothes they had to use as blankets and pillows from the leaf-coated ground. Stan had barely set his things down when Cartman expressed his distaste for bunking too close to their “faggy friend.” A short scuffle occurred followed by flying fists and swinging legs. Kyle pulled Stan away while Kenny, Token, and Clyde gripped onto Cartman’s arms in a feeble attempt to pull him backward. It took a little mediation from Jimmy, his stuttering distracting the group long enough to calm both boys’ nerves, before the order was given for Cartman to sleep on one side of the bus and Stan at the other. 

“You really need to tone it down when picking a fight with Cartman,” Kyle said as he faced Stan. He pressed his hands on Stan’s shoulders. Submissively, Stan lowered, legs folding Indian style as Kyle stooped before him, rummaging through his backpack for a Kleenex. “I mean, I hate the fat ass probably more than you, but he plays dirty. He’d be the type to kill you in your sleep. Literally.”

“I know, just-” Stan frowned, eyes falling shut as Kyle pressed the white cotton to his lower lip, blotting the few traces of brittle, dried blood, “-just… everyone was cool with it before. I mean, seriously. I have so much dirt on them— _all_ of them. It’s like they’re pretending it never happened or something.”

“I don’t know what to tell you, Stan.” Kyle folded the Kleenex over and pressed it to Stan’s temple. “…you’re not mad at me about the dare, are you?”

“Huh?” 

“The dare. I mean, when I… you know… with Clyde-”

“Oh. That.” 

Silence.

Awkward shifting.

A lowered head.

“I was pissed at Cartman,” he replied honestly. “Really pissed. That dare was meant for me.” Upon the quirked eyebrow his best friend gave the boy, he quickly corrected himself, “I mean, it was meant to irritate me. Hurt me, whatever. God, that sounded emo.”

“Ha, we always knew you were an emo kid,” Kyle teased, lowering the hand with the tissue to bat at Stan’s ear. Kyle then crumpled the tissue in his palm and shoved it in the smallest compartment of his backpack to accompany the other mounds of junk he acquired throughout the season—better not to litter even if it required the manifestation of mutant mold. “Seriously, though, it’s okay. I mean, if you’re mad at me it’s fine.”

“Kyle…” Stan murmured. “I just…”

“I know.” Kyle smiled. “Let’s get some shut eye—it might take awhile to fall asleep.” 

A suggestion. 

Case-closed. 

Diversion. 

Acceptance. 

It was okay.

***

4:03 AM.

The first scream.

Encased by blackness, the team members rose to their feet, cries and wails accompanying blind movement. A second scream sounded, merging into a shrill whistle. The boys fumbled for flashlights, trying to move closer to the fire’s light.

“What the hell’s going on?” Token started, voice strong but fearful. His flashlight rotated lighting up each player in succession. Turning his body, the spotlight fell on Tweek. He stood away from the group, screaming incessantly. “Tweek? Tweek, dude, _chill._ ”

Stan glanced at Kyle before tugging his shoulder. A sickly odor filling his nostrils. Something was wrong.

Upon reaching his back, his horror was warranted. 

“Oh my God, they killed Kenny,” Stan gasped. 

Flashlights turned to the source as the team assembled behind the screaming boy. The visage was horrendous. The boy’s orange parka was stained with blood. A gaping hole lay in his side, trails of intestine pulled from his body. Putrid stomach bile stained the ground by crushed legs. His head had been severed. 

Token’s flashlight moved along the ground following a freshly made trail of blood over the crushed leaves. The trail wound to the broken bus; the mutilated head wedged beneath the front right axel. Eyes had been severed from their sockets; his mouth gaping wide in a scream for help; his blond hair matted with blood. 

“You bastards,” Kyle whispered. 

The resounding retching and lurching noises of vomit followed. Cartman stood to the side, hands gripping on his knees as his insides expelled. He lurched again and again, a continuous rebel until he dry heaved. “K-Kenny,” he choked in between heavy breaths. Acidic tears stung the corneas of his eyes as he mourned. Heads hung, fingers weaved together.

“Kenny!” Cartman screamed again. “GOD DAMN IT, KENNY!” He pulled to his feet, staggering as he ran to the severed head. His hands closed in the blond mass as he tugged at it. “KENNY! KENNY, WAKE UP YOU SON OF A BITCH! KENNY! GOD DAMN IT, KENNY!” 

“Cartman -” Stan started, voice hitching in the middle. 

“KENNY! KENNY!” 

“Kenny’s… gone…” Kyle murmured. He glanced at Stan before his head turned, eyes softening. Their quad was broken. 

Both boys approached their wailing friend. Stan extended his hand, fingers brushing along the back of Cartman’s shoulder. “W-We’ll all m-m-miss him.”

“GET THE FUCK OFF ME, YOU FUCKING FAGGOT!” Cartman snapped, arm swinging back as he knocked Stan’s leg. Stan stumbled backward, the whites in his eyes expanding as blood absorbed into his jeans. 

Kenny’s blood.

“Oh Jesus…”

“Cartman-” Kyle started.

“SHUT UP! SHUT UP, YOU FUCKING JEW! YOU HAVE NO IDEA! NO IDEA AT ALL! NONE OF YOU! YOU HAVE NO IDEA HOW I FEEL SO DON’T EVEN TRY TO USE THAT BULLSHIT TO CONSOLE ME, YOU FUCKING—FUCKING-” Cartman’s wails broke as he rose to his feet, eyes narrowing into vengeful slits. “Tweek…”

Tweek stood, legs quaking as his screams began to die, voice too hoarse to scream anymore.

“TWEEK, YOU PIECE OF SHIT!” Cartman lunged forth, shoving through the gathered students as wide, bloodied hands encircled the boy’s throat. Crimson melted onto the Tweek’s throat as his windpipes closed, silenced through a lack of air. 

“LET HIM GO!” Craig screamed, the first to bring a fist back and send it into Cartman’s side. “Tweek had NOTHING to do with this.”

“HE KNEW! THE SON OF A BITCH KNEW THEY WERE COMING TO KILL US! KENNY’S DEAD BECAUSE OF HIM! YOU HEAR THAT, YOU COWARD—KENNY’S DEAD BECAUSE OF YOU!”

A second fist connected with Cartman’s side before a third. Hands encircled Cartman’s torso, yanking him backward. With a strained effort, Cartman was pulled away from Tweek, now collapsing mass. As Cartman’s obscenities increased, Kyle wrapped his arms around the his shoulders, refusing to let go despite the slurs of “dirty Jew.” Moments passed, the profanities dying into choked sobs. 

“Kenny-” he whimpered. “Kenny.”

“It’s okay to cry,” Kyle murmured, fingers indenting the round flesh. “It’s okay.”

Cartman allowed himself to release, tears freely falling as his sobs ensued. “Kenny… Kenny…”

“We’ll miss him,” Kyle said, voice as tranquil as he could force it. “We’ll miss him so much.”

“He was my best friend.”

“I know,” he said. “ _He_ knows.”

“DOES ANYONE KNOW CPR?” Token’s cry interrupted the serene background as he and Craig knelt by the fallen blond’s side.

“Tweek-” Craig breathed as he shook the boy’s shoulders. A blue tint covered Tweek’s features, eyes wide and staring up at him.

“Oh, well, I know a little about it,” Butters stumbled, hand raising as if answering a question. “My mom said that you’re su-supposed to pinch someone’s nose and breathe in. That’s what she said when I walked in on her and my Dad last year and-”

“Oh for Christ’s sake,” Craig snapped. He lowered his head, pinching the boy’s nose as his lips connected to the other’s. Three breaths. He pounded upon Tweek’s chest. Three breaths. Three pounds. Repeat.

Tweek coughed, eyes squeezing shut for a moment.

“Oh God…” Craig whispered. 

“I—It’s my fault.”

“No! You had no way of knowing. We didn’t listen!” Craig said. Tweek coughed twice more. 

Transfixed, Stan approached the fallen boy, eyes lifting to glance at Craig. Craig’s fingers gently rubbed dried blood from the boy’s throat before they guided to the back of his hair. 

Perhaps it was that moment that Stan realized how similar Tweek looked to the disbanded, abused carcass of his friend.

A knot formed in his stomach as Craig’s lips pressed against Tweek’s forehead. “Don’t leave me,” Craig pleaded, voice a hoarse whisper, “Don’t leave me.”

_Craig kissed rough—everything about him was rough from the way his teeth closed around the other’s lower lip and to the way he straddled Stan’s waist, to the way his hands found the other’s throat, encircling tightly. The air seeped from his lungs as Stan’s flailed, hands gripping onto Craig’s in an attempt to loosen the other’s hold._

His fingers tightened into a fist, fingernails digging into the flesh of his palms.

_“I told you I’d kill you if you told anyone,” he hissed, allowing his hands enough slack for the other to take a short breath._

Tweek lifted a hand, delicate fingers traced Craig’s cheekbones. 

_“Don’t you know what you did?”_

Stan’s hands moved to cover his eyes, phalanges sliding against his scalp before the mass of black hair was bunched in his hands.

_“…don’t fuck with my friends.”_

No.

_“You know why Craig beat you up, right?”_

Don’t fuck with my friends.

Don’t fuck my friends.

Don’t fuck.

My friends.

Friends.

Friend.

_“I don’t want to do this!”_

_“What are you doing to do, Clyde?”_

_“That’s enough, Cartman-” Craig interrupted, placing a hand on Clyde’s shoulder. “Just get it over with quickly, okay bud?”_

_No raised middle fingers. No death threats. ‘Don’t fuck with my friends.’ It didn’t make sense._

Don’t fuck with my friends.

My friends.

My… _friend._

The blond lifted his head, lips brushing quickly against Craig’s.

_“Don’t fuck with Tweek.”_

The noxious scent of decaying carcass filled Stan’s nostrils as his eyes rolled back, and then he welcomed the morning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> P.S. I didn’t mean what I said about Samuel L. Jackson in the disclaimer. He is GOD.


	10. The Second Snatching

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I dreamed a dream that I owned South Park. Imagination Land lied. DAMN YOU, MATT AND TREY AND REALLY SHITTY, OVERRATED MUSICAL REFERENCES!

“Stan? Stan?” 

The sky was a blend of peach, orange, green, and grey.

Stan closed his eyes, groaning slightly as they reopened to the mass. Less sky, more definitive features. Prolonged nose, hazel eyes-

“-mn… Kyle?”

“He’s up, you guys!” 

Hands moved behind Stan’s shoulders, a firm brace as the boy was pulled into an upright position. Sounds came, a jarring melody of voices, scuffling, stomping, God knew what else.

“… the hell happened..?”

“Dude, you like, totally passed out.”

“Yeah, ha, what a wuss,” Cartman snorted, half-laughing. 

“Shut up, fat ass,” Stan retorted. His eyes fell shut, fists bunching and rubbing over his eyes before they reopened to the world again. “… where’s the bus?”

“Oh that?” Cartman replied, as if it were the most simple question ever.

“Yes, that. Where the fuck are we?”

“We left last night. Drug your sleeping, pussy-ass with us-”

“That’s not the problem – the hell _are_ we?”

“… we’re… not quite sure,” Kyle replied, a hand extended. Stan realized then that Kyle was taller than him, much taller.

And then he realized he was sitting on the ground. 

Gripping Kyle’s palm, he pulled himself upright, reaching for his friend’s shoulder to steady himself. “Shit, dude… you look really bad,” Kyle murmured.

The group seemed to have come to a stop, and Stan counted heads – a melancholy had settled among the boys. 

It hit like a ton of bricks.

“Holy shit, Kenny!”

“Huh?” 

“Kenny! Kenny, we left him behind!” Stan panicked. “Smelling corpse or not, we shouldn’t have done that! We need to go back for him-”

“What the hell do you mean I smell? Fuck you.”

The boy spun around, jaw slacking. “KENNY?” 

And sure enough, he was there – complete, no tears in his clothes, no hair stained red, no mangled corpse. No pungent odor of decaying flesh.

Just… Kenny.

“Oh hey, Kenny, what’s up?” Kyle greeted.

“… this is so seriously fucked up,” Stan groaned, fingers pinching the bridge of his nose. “I really need to move to a new town.”

“So, where are we going?” Craig asked.   
“Well, f-fellas, I’d say we-we try to find a telephone wire and f-f-f-f-fooo, f-f-f-foooo, f-f-f-follow it back to the mainland,” Jimmy suggested.

“Yeah, because that always ended well in fiction,” Stan muttered.

 

An hour passed, or two or three – without a watch, the concept of time gained or lost wasn’t feasible. There was only the sound of the leaves crunching beneath their footsteps, some of the nonsensical chatter between the team, Cartman farting in Kyle’s general direction. 

“I think we’re lost,” Clyde observed, studying his surroundings.

“Shut up, Clyde,” Cartman said. “We are not lost.”

“We seem pretty lost.”

“We are NOT lost, God damn it!”

“Then do you know where the hell we are?” Token interjected, eyes narrowed.

Cartman looked from left to right, seemingly startled by the question before he proceeded, “Of course I do, but why should I bother telling you? Why don’t you go harass the Jew?”

“Shut up, fat ass!”

“Suck my balls!”

Kyle grunted, head turned aside. “I fucking hate Cartman,” he muttered to Stan, but Stan wasn’t paying attention. His eyes were fixed on the ground, watching as the sky seemed to get dark casting black shadows over his converse. 

He wanted to stop; his feet were aching.

“Are you as hungry as I am?” Stan asked his friend; verbal answer wasn’t given. There would only be the rumbling of stomachs. 

“All right, everyone, listen up!” Cartman called as he stood, facing the group. Tall, massive, intimidating. “It seems our rations are low so we have no choice left. We need to kill Kyle and roast him on a skewer.” 

“What?!” Kyle squeaked.

“Dude, we’re not killing Kyle,” Stan said.

“But he’s the most logical choice. All that vegan crap he has means he’s not contaminated and he’ll taste better than anyone else. I mean, if we killed Kenny he’d be nothing but maggots because he’s poor.”

“Fuck you, fatass!” Kenny swore, hoodie pulled away from his head as he yelled. It was then that it came. Its wings unfolded, covering the ground in dark shadows. A humongous vulture dove to the ground, massive talons grabbing Kenny by the back of the hoodie, yanking his screaming form up into the trees. 

“KENNY!”

The horrific screeches of the baby birds pierced through the air and, one by one, bones fell to the Earth, shattering upon contact. Crunched. 

The group stared.

“So as I was saying, we need to kill Kyle because he’s Jewish-”

“CARTMAN, YOU FAT FUCKING PIECE OF LARD! KENNY DIED AND YOU’RE TALKING ABOUT KILLING ME?!”

“Sometimes we gotta take one for the team, Kyle.”

_And sometime we’d need to think about what the fuck was happening,_ Stan thought. As the team continued on their trek, Stan paused to recollect the bones. At least his family could have something then, a little reminder of who he was.

“We need a new strategy,” Token had suggested once they slowed and set up a second camp. Craig got the fire going after a few tries with matches and turning down Cartman’s suggestion of using fart gas to make it ignite. They agreed that again turns would be taken to watch the fire through the night, to keep the warmth when it was time to sleep, Tweek and Craig offering for the first shift, Kyle and Stan the second, and so on. 

“Hey, Stan?”

“Yeah?” Stan settled on the ground, arms crossed beneath his head for a pillow.

“Are you mad at me?”

“Huh?”

“You’re acting funny.”

“Just tired. Hungry.”

“Oh. Okay.”

“… yeah.”

“Good night, Stan.”

“Night, Kyle.”

Stan’s eyes were the first to fall shut. He had thought he might have been dreaming when he felt additional warmth on his back but, reopening them and looking over his shoulder, he found his friend lying there, back to him. He gazed at Kyle for a few moments before he rolled to face his back, arm wrapping around Kyle’s waist. 

For warmth, he’d use as an excuse. His excuse.

But Stan had no reason for Kyle taking his hand and squeezing it, fingers intertwining with it as he held it to his chest. Stan couldn’t think of an excuse for why his heart drummed so fast, or why his breathing aligned with Kyle’s. They were so perfect, would be so perfect.

But they were different. 

Stan was gay. His friend was not. And even if some of the others experimented, people couldn’t just decide who they liked, who they didn’t, and change things. Kyle could no more like him than he could no less like Kyle. 

He nuzzled closer, and Kyle squeezed his hand tighter. Over the top of Kyle’s head, before Stan closed his eyes, he thought he saw Clyde watching by the flickering, slowly dying fire. Sometime he would apologize for snapping at Clyde. But not then. Not when he could embrace a few hours of closeness, where he could pretend Kyle was his, _really his._ Not just his friend.


	11. Bad Omens and Beer

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I don't want to grow up. I'm a Toys 'r Us Kid. There's a million things about this diddy that I can't remember! Because I'm old. Or something. And verifiably insane. Justin Bieber is NOT God. Number of people surprised: 0.
> 
> Let's begin, shall we?

Daybreak.

Stan awoke to find a backpack cradled under his arm, bare fingers twisted around one of the shoulder straps. He thought he might have dreamed the entire sequence but, as he sat upright squinting to adjust to the new light of morning, there was the slightest indent beside him, leaves brushed away leaving the brown, dirt bottom. His fingers wrapped around a red, curly hair.

It was real – it had to be. For a little while, it was real, and Kyle was his.

He yawned, arms stretching behind his head then he rose to his feet, lifted up the backpack, and pulled it over his shoulders, shrugging beneath its weight as he stepped forward: left, right, left right.

It was fairly quiet save for the grunts of the student body surrounding him, all the boys packing up for this day's travel.

"Hey Stan!" Kyle called, hand waving.

Stan lifted his hand halfway before dropping it. His eyes caught something from above. A telephone wire. It did exist. A town couldn't be that far away.

"We should get going," Stan said. "I'm starving."

"Want to split a Kosher pack of Gummi Bears?"

Stan stared at his friend incredulously. "They make Kosher Gummi Bears?"

"Why wouldn't they?" Kyle replied, opening up the end.

"Good point," he said, holding out his hand as Kyle spilled in the gummies. "Hey Kyle, about last night. Did-"

"Hey Stan, what's up?" a loud voice said, interrupting his train of thought.

Stan turned, shrieking as he saw Kenny's orange parka. "Holy SHIT, dude!"

"What the fuck's your problem?" he mumbled, barely comprehensible. Kyle blinked at Stan.

"You feeling okay?"

"But Kenny's…"

"…?"

"… this is so fucked up."

And truly, for lack of other words, it was. Stan pinched the bridge of his nose with his index finger and thumb. The sound of a crow echoed from overhead. Everything stilled into nothing.

"Let's just get out of here," Stan said, not wanting to think, to ponder the reasons why. Why had any of this happened? Was he going nuts? Didn't they just get lost in the woods after their bus broke down? There wasn't a gnome or troll or any shit like that.

"What? I'm sorry, could you repeat that? Your fairy voice is too soft for my delicate ears," Cartman said.

"Fuck you, fat ass."

"No thanks, fudge packer."

"You stupid fuck face-"

"Now Stan," Cartman continued, faux reprimanding him. "Is it really nice to call names? I mean, just because you're GAY doesn't mean you have to be a dick to the rest of us."

Clyde was the first to laugh. As Stan met his eyes, one thing was clear: hurt. Laughter was payback, at least the only that Clyde could come up with. He was too sweet to do something really wrong, and that upset him more than anything.

"Look, whatever. Can we just shut up and get the fuck back on the road again? We'll run out of food soon enough," Kyle said. Kyle always came to save the day. Always. Stan always liked him for that, except when Kyle would go off on tangents, making speeches that were pointless.

Again, there was the shuffling of bags, a few words exchanged, and the group set forth again, Kenny by Stan's side… again.

Kyle picked up the pace to stride along Stan's other side. "They'll knock it off soon enough. Probably when we get back. It's gonna get lame soon enough."

"… what?"

"The gay jokes."

Kenny shrugged his shoulders. "I think it's funny as fuck."

"Kenny!" Kyle reprimanded.

"No, shut up. Think about it," he said, tugging the strings of his hood loose before pulling it away from his face, hand running through the mess of blonde hair. "Stan Marsh, all star quarterback, gay as gay can be. It's hilarious."

"Shut up, Kenny!" Kyle said. "It shouldn't matter whether Stan's gay or not."

"I never said it did. I just said I thought it was hilarious, which you can't deny… it IS hilarious. Talk about irony."

Kyle blinked. "Dude, when did you get a good vocabulary?"

"Librarian porn."

"... why am I not surprised."

Stan frowned, torso inclined forth as if it would make the load on his back lighter. "I just want to go home, get a shower, sleep, and pretend this never happened."

"You'd take being in the closet over just a few taunts?" Kenny asked.

"Just a few taunts?!"

"Kenny, dude, seriously, leave him alone," Kyle interrupted, again the peacemaker, as always. Always striving. Always something. Kennymerely shrugged his shoulders in response.

"If it were anyone else, he'd be laughing. You, too."

That point was brought up again and again. Stan couldn't argue it. Because, really, he would have laughed if it was anyone else and he was with the guys. They always laughed. It was always funny until it wasn't.

Seconds became minutes which became hours, and as their path became dark the bright glows of city lights shone, blinking in the night. Enthused, the group picked up their pace, eyes set on the nearest motel despite the "M" that was turned on its side nearly flickering out.

They'd be able to rest. Call home. Get rides. This mess would be over. Somewhat of a celebratory cheer erupted, Cartman gloating that it was due to his awesomely leadership skills that they found sanctuary. Stan, however, wasn't laughing. Backpack set on the ground, he quietly observed the people walking down the sidewalks. Army ants. Some sort of analogy like that.

"Hey guys! Over here!" Kyle yelled from a payphone. "I got through on collect, hold on."

Sheepherding, Stan thought next as he watched the group walk across the street, orbiting around the glass box housing the red-haired youth.

"Yes, hello, this is Kyle Broflovski and… what? No, we weren't able to play because the damn bus broke down after we hit like a dwarf or something."

"IT WAS A GNOME! OH JESUS CHRIST! AHH!" Tweek squealed loudly.

"Shut up, Tweek!" Kyle snapped, hand over the mouth piece for a second. "So yeah, I need you to get a new bus out here to pick us up. Uh huh. Oh uh…" Kyle paused again. "Anyone have any idea where we are?"

"We're in like, Idaho."

"Shut up, Cartman! We are NOT in Idaho!"

"Screw you, Jewface. I know Idaho when I see it, and this is Idaho! It reeks of potato and homo."

"… what?" Token blinked.

"Tch, don't you know," Cartman continued, eyes rolling once. "Idaho's famous for potatoes, and we have one homo here."

"Cartman, shut up about Stan being gay!" Kyle snapped before freezing, knuckles turning white on the phone. "No, Stan's not. That was just… we were goofing off. Look, just, can you get someone from the school to pick us up or something? Please? The sooner the better. Just like... I don't know, track down the call. There's a motel called Lucky Seven if that's any help. Scuzzy place but-" he paused. "Are you listening to a word I say? Okay, so you'll be here and- NO! You don't need to put up a Facebook status about Stan being gay, damn it!"

Kyle growled as he slammed the phone down. "God damn it." Eyes moved to the group. "We're supposed to get rooms at the motel and our parents will be here to pick us up tomorrow."

"And get food. I'm starving" Cartman protested. "C'mon Hurry up, you guys! I'm gonna die or something!"

"Guys, look. We need to get organized and make sure we don't go over budget," Token interfered warily. "As few rooms as possible."

"Fine by me." Stan lifted up his bag, shifting it into one hand rather than pull it over his shoulders. Before the others, he trudged toward the door. He slowed with the sensation of being followed, shoulders jerking with the light touch to them.

"Stan..?"

He sighed, non-responsive at first. "What?"

"You're not okay, are you?" Kyle paused, sighing. "Forget it. Let's just get a room, get something to eat, and get some sleep."

"You don't have to."

"Huh?"

"Share a room with me. I can get my own. Wouldn't want you to deal with the guys ripping on you."

"Stan!" Kyle closed his hand firmly around Stan's shoulder, turning his friend to face him. "I don't care. Seriously. I. Don't. Care. Once we get back to school, no one's going to remember this was even a joke. You'll see. You're still my best friend – why would I care what you like to stick it in better?"

They were silent a moment before laughing, Kyle's conclusion so ridiculous it couldn't help but lighten the mood. The sound was quiet at first, then building volume, a melodious tone accompanying it, breaking the tension of night under the steady humming over the flickering, overhead billboard "M" light above. For that moment, everything felt safe. They were two boys, two best friends, hanging out as they always did. Strange city amidst rowdy boys from a town in Colorado no one heard of.

Stan lifted a hand, allowing fingertips to brush against Kyle's cheek for a brief moment.

Kyle stopped laughing.

"Don't fuck with my friends!"

"Stan..?" Kyle uttered, shortness of a whisper as his friend inclined his head toward him. "What are you doing?"

"… Fuck." Stan pulled away from Kyle and turned his back.

"Stan?"

Stan didn't answer. He kept his head low as he walked away from the motel in the direction of the dim bar lights across the road.

"STAN!"

He closed his eyes. Soon he'd feel it, the hand on his arm, the voice beckoning him back, and he'd obey.

But that didn't come. Instead, he head voices drifting in the wind. Distinctive voices.

Clyde asked, "What just happened?"

Kyle's answer made Stan's stomach churn. "I think Stan was trying to kiss me."

Stan grit his teeth, the chattering behind him drowning out as he pressed a hand to the door of the bar and pushed it in. The boisterous banter of the drunks would be his company and, a twenty slapped down with a fake ID, the bottle of Moosehead would be too. Or the five bottles of it.

He wan't aware of a new presence coming until it sat next to him and said, "We need to talk."

"Look, Kyle-" Stan began, but he never finished.

It was Craig.


	12. Dropping the Soap without any Rope

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: Matt and Trey own South Park. They did “Imaginationland.” LOL I see what dey did there. Or did I? I'm kind of nuts. No, really. Anywhizzy in the flippity-floppity-flooozy-hizzouse, this disclaimer is also brought to you by Gatorade, which has nothing to do with this fanfic, and probably is mortified that I've referenced them. The author is property of someone. Possibly, maybe.
> 
> Anyway, shall we? We shall, yes.

To say he was surprised to see Craig would be an understatement; Stan was floored. But there Craig was, not threatening to kill him, trying to start up some sort of conversation. Stan didn’t trust it, but there wasn’t much he could do about it except rise to his feet and walk alongside Craig to one of the tables in the back. They took seats and stared each other down. For a moment, Stan thought that they could have had the potential to be spitting images of each other, maybe in the right clothes mistaken from the back, but Stan’s face was more effeminate and Craig’s only marring feature was bad teeth, something he tried to hide at times. 

They ordered a round of drinks. Stan’s sixth, Craig’s first. In the background, the Rolling Stones “You Can’t Always Get What You Want” faded into Keith Urban’s “Nobody Drinks Alone.” Stan downed half the bottle in a few large gulps.

“We need to talk,” Craig reiterated, taking a small sip of his.

“So you said.”

Craig fidgeted, hands moving beneath the table before he finally sat on them, probably in attempt to keep from flipping Stan off. By that point, Stan was too drowsy to care. “You know,” Craig began, “I really hated you. And I think you got what you deserve from the guys bullying you… but I was wrong. I shouldn’t have fucked you. Not like that when I was angry.”

_So eloquent._ Stan finished his drink and lifted his hand for another. 

“I mean it. I’m sorry. Not that it makes things better, but--”

“Why are you apolo—apologizing?” Stan caught himself fumbling. He took a deep breath. “Are you looking for another fuck?”

“No. I wanted to apologize.”

“Why?”

“I told you, I felt bad.”

“You know what I think? I think that’s bullshit,” Stan said as he pulled the beer to his lips. Usually Stan preferred to think that he took after his mother, but his drinking habits mirrored his father’s. This time warranted an excuse. He wanted to forget. Needed to.

“You’ve been messed up since then. And I talked with Tweek and Clyde and they thought I should apologize as well. So, here I am. Apologizing.”

“You should take that apology and shove it up your rectum. Bitch.” 

Craig blinked at Stan. “Great. I go out of my way to try and be nice to you, and you’re wasted.”

“Am not. Another!” he called to the bartender, not quite finished with the one on the table. Craig twitched. “You… you can apologize later if you realllly mean it. I mean, fuck. Probably you’re- you’re only apologizing because Tweek’s not putting out.”

“Leave him out of this,” Craig growled. “You have beef with me? Sure. Fine. But keep Tweek out of it.”

“Why? He was the reason this enti--whole mess started,” Stan challenged. 

“I’m not apologizing because he’s not putting out. I’m apologizing because I did something wrong after you gave him a handjob.”

“And he gave me a blowjob. Don’t forget that,” Stan added, leaning across the table. Craig was shaking in fury. Craig closed his eyes in a slow countdown. 

“It’s not that simple.”

“Uh huh.”

“I’m about ready to drag you to the motel and show you why I did what I did.” 

“Then do it,” Stan challenged, shocked when he was pulled to his feet, Craig throwing cash on the table. Stan barely grabbed the bottles of beer, one of which he drained and dropped next to the garbage can where it broke and shattered, the other quickly brought to his lips. 

Craig half-carried Stan toward the motel, pulling one of Stan’s arms over his shoulders as they walked and wove side to side, Stan drinking and breaking into song.

_“Hey, come on try a littttttle~  
Nothing is forever~  
There’s got to be something better than in the middddddle~  
But me and Cinderellaaa~  
We put it all togetherrrrrr~  
We can drive it home~  
With one headliiiiiiight~~~”_

“Would you fucking shut up?” Craig hissed. “No one wants to hear you butcher The Wallflowers.”

“You know, it’s like… it’s like I’m the Cinderella.”

Craig knocked the bottle from Stan’s hand as he turned, grunting as he bent over and with a heave lifted Stan up and over his shoulder, ignoring the way he kicked and struggled to pull free.

“What the hell’s wrong with him?” Kyle asked, head turning as the attention of the team was caught, or at least Jimmy, Token, Kyle, Cartman, Kenny, and Butters as they played hackey sack outside in the snow

“KYYYYLLLE, he’s KIDNAPPING ME!”

“He’s plastered. I’ll bring him back to your room after I have a little chitchat with him.”

“DON’T LET HIM TAKE ME! HE’S GONNA RAPE ME!”

Craig growled as he kicked at his motel door, Clyde opening it. “I swear to God, Marsh, when you sober up, I’m kicking your ass.” And he carried Stan in, Clyde closing the door behind him, shutting the team out, even Kyle who watched silently.

Inside the room, Stan was dumped on the bed, almost instantly falling asleep. When he woke up, he found himself with his jeans around his ankles and in his underwear. The shower was on, Clyde standing outside it waiting his turn, Clyde sitting in a chair by the door. Stan groaned as he looked to himself. “Shit, you guys did rape me,” he muttered, grunting as he pulled up his jeans. 

“No. You had the brilliant idea to give Tweek your underwear as a replacement for what the Underpants Gnomes would steal,” Craig mumbled.

“It’s true,” Clyde added. “Then you passed out before you could get your underwear off.”

“Also true.”

Stan sighed. “So what? Why the big secret conference crap?” He rubbed at his head.

“I wanted to apologize for what I did.”

“Oh God, not this again,” Stan moaned.

“If I weren’t dating Tweek, I still probably would have done that to you since he’s my friend. Even if it’s wrong.”

“Why? Because you have a hard on for him?” Stan spat bitterly.

Craig looked at Clyde who looked to the shower, then nodded. “Tweek,” Craig began, and paused. “Tweek’s been raped.”

Immediately, Stan sobered up, hit with something harder than just a hangover. “What?”

Craig’s lips pursed. Clyde continued in his stead. “We’re sworn to secrecy on who but it’s happened for awhile. There’s a system that happens… did you kiss him?”

“What? No. I didn’t.”

“That was it then.” Clyde exhaled. “He switches, becomes another person when he’s not shown that someone cares about the action. So like, he might have consented when you were jerking him off, but going down on you was probably, to him, going down on somebody else.”

“Jesus Christ,” Stan murmured, hand moving to his mouth. “That’s… dude, why didn’t you tell anyone?” 

“Sworn to secrecy.”

“And you listened to that why? Don’t either of you have any sense?”

“It’s more complicated than you think. Just leave it like that,” Clyde exhaled. “And for the love of God, don’t tell anyone.”

“He needs therapy or something.”

Craig shifted his weight. “He does get therapy. And pills. Things to make him relax. To make him happy.”

“Shouldn’t they be doing something? He’s just a spazz,” Stan persisted.

“Drop it,” Craig said, head turning to the bathroom door as the water from the shower turned off followed by an “Oh Jesus, I dropped the soap and there’s no rope!”

Clyde sighed as he looked to Craig. “Permission?”

“It’s cool.”

And Clyde disappeared into the bathroom. “I’ll get it. Go get dry,” Clyde’s voice said through the closed door.

Stan and Craig were left in silence.

“So…” Craig started.

“Yeah…”

“Will you accept my apology?”

Stan saw the bed, the floor, the pillow, tasted the linen, felt blood, felt cum, felt disgusting, felt gross, felt violated, humiliated, shower, stall, soap, shampoo, conditioner, nothing, nothing, nothing, cold, cold, so cold, faggot, it’s not like you, Stan, Stanstanstanstan.

“Well?” Craig asked.

His mind went to Tweek. Tweek thinking Stan was someone else. Tweek thinking Stan was his assailant. Craig doing revenge, for Tweek. Craig regretting it.

Stan bolted to his feet. “I need to go,” he said more suddenly, the room seeming to tilt on its side as he rose fumbling toward the door. Craig was on his feet, arm outstretched to help. Stan batted it away. “Get the fuck away from me.”

“I apologized.” 

“That doesn’t mean I need to accept!” Stan snapped, gripping the door, twisting it the wrong way before getting it right and pulling it open. He stepped out disoriented, shivering with the cold night air. Wherever they were, it definitely wasn’t someplace warm, and probably not too far from home. He shuddered as he moved down the line of rooms, unsure of which was his. 

“You’ll freeze,” Craig called.

“GO AWAY!”

Craig hesitated, then sighed. “Our door will be open for when you start freezing your balls off.” 

Stan started to pace. A gnawing bit at his stomach. Images came to his mind – Tweek. He hooked up with and helped Tweek relive a horror, something that Craig and Clyde knew about yet were too fucked up to tell anyone about it. Not the cops, not a teacher. They let it happen. They let it occur. Monsters, gnomes, strange things—were they just the product of PTSD? 

Shivering, he walked past each window, peering through the tiny gaps of the curtains but nothing seemed familiar. He didn’t know what time it was. The sky was black, ground starting to coat with snow. Rapidly falling. He sat on the ground underneath the overhang, knees pulls to his chest, arms wrapped around himself, rocking back and forth. It was so cold. So very cold. Just like the room. That night.

_“Don’t fuck with my friends.”_

_My friends._

_Friend._

His eyes squeezed shut as his shoulders shook in hard heaves, cries muted by the wind as tears formed in the corners of his eyes and rolled down his cheeks where they froze. 

It was after an inch of snow accumulated on his body that any of the doors reopened. 

“Stan?” 

Stan could barely open his eyes. “Kyle?” 

“Jesus,” Kyle said, in his pajamas and slippers as he ran out, arms moving around Stan’s shoulders. “You’re frozen stiff. We need to get you inside.”

“Kyle….”

“It’s okay. It’s all right, now.” With more of a strain than Craig had, Kyle lifted up Stan and carried him into the motel room, kicking the door shut behind him. 

“Holy shit, dude,” Kenny swore, immediately out of bed. Cartman blinked sleepily. 

“What the Hell’s going on? It’s two-thirty in the fucking morning,” he complained.

“Stan was in the snow all this time.”

Stan sniffled, shivering although the warm air felt good against his skin. He was too numb to process being pulled to his feet, to the three bodies surrounding him. He thought he said no as they removed garment by garment off his frozen body, pealing the items away before carrying him into the bathroom and placing him in the bathtub. Warm water filled it, something that stung at first but then was comforting. He shivered. It was cold. So cold. Hands were on his body, rubbing him with soap and washcloths, warming. He liked the touch. The forms spoke but he couldn’t make out words, finally closing his eyes as he let his body relax, opening them when he was pushed into an upright position, hands over his eyes as water was poured on his head. And as quickly as that started, it was over as he was pulled to his feet, six hands wrapping and patting him down with towels, then two moving away as a hairdryer was turned on. The hot air was exhilarating. So euphoric. He shuddered and leaned against one of the forms.

“Aw, dude’s getting a stiffy. Fag,” Cartman complained.

“Dude, shut the fuck up.” Kenny.

“It’s going to be okay, Stan. It’ll be okay,” Kyle murmured taking care as he lifted each of Stan’s legs and worked them through pajama pants, sliding them up over his thighs and on his hips, careful with the waistband so it wouldn’t scrape against the sensitive areas. Next were the arms that were put through the flannel top, buttons done carefully. Socks were rolled on his feet. 

“Can you walk now?” Kyle asked, but Stan didn’t answer, only leaned against Kyle as he took small steps, led to the closest bed that he pulled himself onto, wriggling to get beneath the covers. He felt warmth on each side of him and opened his eyes. 

“A whole bed to myself? Shweeeeeet,” Cartman said with glee.

Stan blinked a few times as he turned his head from side to side – Kenny with his arm wrapped around Stan’s waist, Kyle’s left hand seizing his own as the right moved over his stomach. Stan’s eyelids felt heavy. Kenny was already breathing deeply, something which came with sleep. Soon he’d be under.

“Hey Kyle,” Stan whispered softly.

“Stan, thank God…” he murmured, working to turn Stan on his side to face him, Kenny, in sleep, scooting to snuggle up behind Stan. It was cold, and their bodies were warm, so warm. “Stan, promise me you won’t do that again. I was so scared.”

“Kyle…” Stan whispered, that same tone as he tightened the hold on Kyle’s hand, other arm moving to wrap around his waist, Kyle’s arm wrapping around his own in response. “I’m sorry.”

“Stan, just… just go back to the way you were before. This isn’t like you. None of this is. You have me worrying around the clock.”

“Sorry.”

“Please,” Kyle begged, Stan’s eyes starting to get heavy, and heavier, and heavy, and heavier.

“Hey Kyle?” he whispered.

“Yes?”

“If you ever end up gay, you’d tell me, wouldn’t you?”

Kyle was quiet for a moment and nodded. “You’d be the first I’d tell. Promise.”

“Good,” Stan murmured. “Good.” 

He shifted his weight, inclining his head toward his best friend. Kyle didn’t budge. “Stan..?” he whispered. “Are you sure you want to do that?”

Stan paused mid-motion, lips already somewhat pursed. His expression relaxed and he settled back to the pillow. “Sorry.” 

Kyle exhaled and squeezed Stan tightly. “You’ll thank me for stopping you when you’re sober.”

But Stan didn’t, if not for anything than waking up to the sound of cameras, the blinding blinking lights of flashes, and chatter. “The hell-” he said before he felt movement on both sides of his body, Kenny offering a “Fuck off” before snuggling back up to the warmth of Stan’s back, and Kyle bolting upright. 

“Cartman, you son of a bitch!”

“You rich son of a bitch, you mean. I just made a hundred dollars off these guys for letting them take these pics. Ha, you’d think everyone in South Park was a fucking homo.”

Stan would have loved to fight Cartman once more but it was Kyle who leapt from the bed, took off across the room, and tackled the other to the floor. 

Fatigued, Stan shifted, turning so he faced Kenny, tugging the blankets up over their heads for warmth, arm wrapping around the blond’s waist.

“What’s wrong?” Kenny asked, worried.

“Nothing,” Stan answered, gazing into another set of blue eyes. “Nothing at all,” he added in a whisper moments before he felt lips against his own, this time not from his own initiation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ANNNNND This is where I've left off. Goal: to be able to continue and finish this thing once and for all!


End file.
